


hoop

by decidingdolan



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alex's there for his jam and bread (and more) (maybe) (maybe not.), College AU, Collins' just trying to help, Fluff, Gibson's head over heels but doesn't quite know what he's doing, Introspection, M/M, Retrospective, Second Person, Tommy's beautiful and knows it., non-linear, switching points of views, time fluidity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: he's the first year, you're the senior. and you'd have thought the most cliche of all campus love stories wouldn't turn out to be such a trainwreck.





	1. first.

 

 

 

_Come over here and look up at us. Aren’t we exactly what you wanted to believe in?_

 

_**\--Mary Jo Bang,**  from “In the Street,” published in Poetry Magazine_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

You're staring into his eyes, the space between you and him palpable, disappearing, shrinking. You're staring into his eyes, and you're cursing that first Thursday afternoon you wore your goddamn silver earring to campus.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s….what?”

 

Collins was still busy munching on his fries, both cheeks puffed out with food. You elbowed him in the ribs, and a piece of lettuce fell from the burger in his hand to the ground.

 

“Hey!”

 

You shrugged, shifted your eyes in the direction of the approaching figure.

 

He followed your eyes, and turned his focus back to the burger before your target was even out of sight.

 

A trace of a smile played on his lips.

 

“I can’t believe your picks, Gibson,” he muttered, popping two fries into his mouth as he settled back down on the bench. “That one. Honestly?”

 

You stared at him, chewed your lip. “You’re terrible at this, you are.” And you took your place next to him, bumped him over a few inches. A few fallen fries should suffice for that dirty mouth.

 

(He’d budged, slightly. But let you sit in without another word. Those monstrous American burgers could take a while to finish.)

 

It was lunch time, fall. Start of a new term. You’re studying the Great Oak’s brown leaves, reminiscing on the summer that was seconds ago, when he stepped into the picture. It was short sleeves and sharp sunlight. Melting ice cream cones and iced americanos. Warm sea breezes and chasing girls across the sand. You’re out in the open, skin feeding on that much-needed Vitamin D, free and laughing and reveling in the temporary escapist’s paradise. Now it’s long coats and layers and keeping to a schedule. Rules and confinement and predefined syllabuses. Long halls lined with so-called peers and noises that amused and baffled you to no end. But then there was him.

 

“ _You’re_ terrible,” said Collins, echoing you, his tone dead serious. Anyone who’d not known him would have thought him mocking you. Three years of friendship had taught you otherwise. “I’m only trying to protect you, a’right?”

 

You let out a laugh, incredulous. “Who, me?” Pointed a finger at him, then at your chest. “I don’t need your prot—just tell me who he _is_ , for God’s sake.”

 

Collins shook his head, the burger shrunken in his hand, almost thoroughly conquered. “Gibs, listen to me.”

 

You rolled your eyes.

 

He took his last bite, placed a hand on your shoulder.

 

“It’s not going to end well.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

You remembered the first time he took your picture.

 

There’s a click, snap. And you’d turned around to him grinning like he’d won the rights to the last of your secrets.

 

Touched a finger to the base of your chin, as you looked him in the eye.

 

“You did not.”

 

He came round, stepped up and pressed his lips to yours, hand brushing the nest of black strands you called hair away from your forehead.

 

“I just did,” he whispered, triumphant for a trivial reason, and showed you the picture on the leica slung across his form.

 

It’s you, minutes ago, hair all out of place and rounded glasses magnifying your eyes. Your yellow parka’s stolen the photo’s focus, and your lips were on the verge of stopping him from pressing the shutter.

 

“You look cute,” he said, finger grazing your cheek, “Standing in front of the library like this. Black Docs. Glasses, parka.”

 

He’s smiling, and that somehow your heart found useless to resist.

 

“Wouldn’t change a thing.”

 

You chuckled, refused to meet his eyes. “Some compliment.”

 

He took your hand, weaved his fingers in. “Always with the sober self-criticism,” he replied, pretend solemnity in his voice, “They’d warned me about you.”

 

“They?” you glanced at your joined hands, then up at him, “Who’s they?”

 

He raised an index finger to his lips, made a soft “Shh,” sound. “I’m not allowed to tell.”

 

You raised an eyebrow, let his hand go. “Even to me,” a finger tracing the pattern on his black sweater, eased the distance between you two until your shoes touched.

 

“Even to you,” he breathed, those absurdly gorgeous greens locked on your face, and your nerves were struggling to hold their own. Your mind’s lost that battle a long while ago.

 

“ _Especially_ you.”

 

And you’d grabbed him by the front of the sweater, pulled him close, and kissed him like neither of you had exams to sit for the next morning.

 

It’s like that with him, Gibson.

 

Your fingers in his hair, his breaths on your neck. His taste on your tongue, and your murmuring his name in your head.

 

_Gibson. Gibson. Gibson._

_Why did I ever let you happen to me?_

 

  

* * *

 

  

You’re a deadbeat romantic.

 

Collins had diagnosed you, warned you, and still you’re standing in front of the MSCI100 classroom on a Thursday, hands in your pocket and nerves a live wire, lips dry and mind emptied of words.

 

_He’s a bloody first year._

_So._

_So?_

_You’re not his type._

 

You’d pushed Collins away, and the blonde staggered a few steps back.

 

_How’d you even know that?_

 

He gestured at himself, overt, loud. Half the campus would have heard him if it wasn’t a fourth year free period.  

 

 _Me. Your best friend here, hello?_ He’s tapping at the top of your head, and you’d scrunched your eyebrows.

 

_What does that have to do with anything?_

_Everything. It has to do with everything._

 

And he stepped close, finger pointed in the direction of the new Engineering building (where you, not so coincidentally, were now). _Tommy’s… he’s not for you. I’m telling you straight, Gibs. Avoid._

 

He repeated the word, as if to a child.

 

_Avoid._

 

You grinned at him, nonchalant. _Ah. So that’s his name. Tommy._

 

Collins threw his hands in the air.   _You’re terrible at this_ , he was saying, _you are._

 

You clasped your hands together, tilted your head in his direction. _I’m terrible. You’re terrible. Wonder why we stick together so well._

 

 _That’s… not the point_ , he frowned, and you’re sensing his realization of the failing persuasion, _And you know it._

 

 _But his earring_ , you sing-songed, all cares about Collins’ warnings scattered to dust, _Maybe that’s the point._

 

 _His_ ridiculous _earring_ , said Collins, exasperation fueling his words, _And that_ ridiculous _gelled hair. His_ ridiculously _lanky body_. _Those_ ridiculously _thin lips._

 

 _And his ridiculously scrawny ass_ , you added, with a full-toothed smile.

 

He huffed, a clear signal of his defeat and your victory. _Fine, if you want to_ have _that scrawny_ ass. _Fine._

 

And he’s yelling after you as you ran into this maze of a building you’d not been in before on campus (Psychology had to be on the other edge of the area.).

 

_But don’t say I didn’t warn you._

 

And you’re yanked right back into yourself at the sound of a familiar voice.

 

“You waiting for someone?”

 

You blinked, and there he was. Tommy. Denim jacket, black shirt. Grey jeans. Black baseball cap over his head, and that little silver hoop dangling from his right ear.

 

“Oh, uh,” you’re looking him up and down before you could stop yourself. How in the world could Collins ever see such beauty as a threat?

 

“You, Tommy,” you said, forcing a smile and hoping you resemble more of a friendly face than some random stalker (guilty).

 

“I’m waiting for you.”

 

 

* * *

 


	2. frisson

 

 

 

 

> _Everything that’s lovely is_  
>  _But a brief, dreamy, kind delight._
> 
> _\--W.B. Yeats, from_ ‘Never Give All The Heart’ 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re dressed.”

 

You ran a hand through your hair (gelled, in place, tidy. Thank God.), leaned against the wall as you put on your boots. Alex’s standing in the doorway, arms across his chest and a tea mug in one hand.

 

“It’s what people generally do when they’re going out, yes,” you said, tying the laces together. He chuckled, reached out a free hand to brush some invisible powder off your arm.

 

“Yea,” he agreed, his eyes giving you the greedy once-over you did not ask for, “I know that.” He started humming a tune, some teeny-bopper number you’d missed out on the radio’s Top 40. He’d been known to imitate one of those X-Factor boy bands’ lead singers all too well and way too often.

 

“Question is,” he was grinning, as he continued to stare, like you’re his personal sitting duck on display (wasn’t it always?), “Who’s the _guy_ —and— (he gestured at himself at this)—why isn’t it me?”

 

You shot him a look, as you grabbed your leather messenger bag from the floor, “That’s two questions, A, two.”

 

He wiggled his fingers in front of your face. “Boy knows how to count, I’ll give him that.”

 

You pushed his hand back, stifling the laugh at the edge of your lips. “No one you know,” you said, brusque, palm feeling your jeans’ pocket for the apartment keys. Alright there. Good.

 

He’s your roommate, sure, but personal boundaries did exist. Had to.

 

“I’ll bet it’s a senior,” he mused, as he took a sip of his tea, “Wouldn’t go for the small leagues, would ya.”

 

You waved a hand, dismissive. “God, _Alex_ ,” you’re shaking your head, “What do you take me for?”

 

The artiste laughed, a bizarre string of sounds that tended to linger in your eardrums afterwards. (it’s Alex. It’s only Alex.)

 

“Guy like you?” he tilted his head back, pretended to think, and sang in his tenor tone, “ _Player, player. Ain’t gotcha number._ ”

 

You smacked him on the shoulder with the handle of the umbrella next to the shoe rack. “I’m late,” you’re muttering, more to yourself than to him, “Be back when I get back, okay?”

 

He shrugged, barely flinching from your quick umbrella sucker punch seconds earlier. Pursed his lips. “Have fun,” he said, hand mussing up your hair, “Don’t miss me too much.”

 

You nodded in his direction, as you pushed the door open. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, your back to him as you headed out to the chilled fall air, “Laterz, sweetheart.”

 

“ _Auf wiedersehen_ , lover.”

 

 

* * *

 

  

You jumped when he flicked the switch off your vinyl player.

 

“Enough,” said Collins, lifting the vinyl off the turntable and turning the needle to the side. “You’re breaking the poor thing.”

 

“But—“

 

He lifted a finger, stepped in between you and the machine and bent to pick up the vinyl’s envelope from the floor, where you were. (Or had been, for the last….day, maybe.)

 

Great, so it’s come to this.

 

“There are better ways to mope than listening to _Changing of the Seasons_ on loop, Gibson.” You frowned, arm outstretched, trying to grab the vinyl from him.

 

“Give.”

 

“No.”

 

“ _Collins_.”

 

He slid the vinyl into the envelope, placed it on the shelf, and sat down next to you. “I—“

 

“Don’t—“

 

“I wasn’t—“

 

“If you were going to—“

 

He shook his head. “Go for a walk, Gibs. Just one.” He lifted his eyes toward the windows. Spring was outside, daisies and fresh greens breaking out on trees and cool breezes just right for bomber jackets, but you’d rather stay and lock yourself in as though winter hadn’t passed.

 

 _You got snow there_ , said Tommy, and you felt the weight, the tug of his eyes scanning your face. Warmth pooled at your cheeks, spinning your nerves to a feverish degree.

 

 _Where_ , you asked, soft, playful, careless. Just as scripted, just as he’d prompted. And his lips were nibbling your nose, steady, playful, serious.

 

You closed your eyes, heard snow fall on the ground, and felt the world slowed to a stop.

 

 _I told you we should’ve gone out_ , he’s whispering. Voice beside your ear, ringing, seeping into your mind.

 

So close. He’s so close.

 

 _And we are_ , you said, thumb kneading his maroon scarf, _we are._

 

He laughed, lips pecked your cheek.

 

_Only because I got you to._

 

And you’re smiling, pulled his grey beanie down to his nose.

 

_Gibs._

_What._

_You’re unbelievable._

 

You made a half-formed sound of acknowledgement in your throat.

 

He adjusted the beanie back up, wrapping his hand around yours. And you’re walking down the street together, snow falling around you like powdered sugar coating the lifeless town.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first sound you heard was his chuckle at the door.

 

"Oh no," he'd said, fondness in his voice and syrup in his eyes, and you're almost tempted to turn back and run.

 

You didn't deserve this.

 

"There goes the dinner plan." And he's drawing a line across the air with his hand, miming the disappearance of an invisible something, brushing away those predetermined certainties and defined schedules.

 

But you weren't about them, were you?

 

You placed a ginger hand on his shoulder, squeezed it. Popped the half-bitten Royal Gala out of your mouth.

 

Held the apple in your free palm.

 

"Rehearsals were running late," you answered, pursing your lips just the right amount. "Got a bit peckish."

 

That smile again. The one that reminded you of flickering camp fires, of burning candles' lit ends in a darkened room, a mug of chai latte in the middle of a thunderstorm.

 

He chuckled then, eyes lingering on you, your face, your lips, your neck. You bit your lip, the apple a soggy damp patch in your hand.

 

"Suppose you don't mind pizza..."

 

You shook your head, brisk. Slipped the fingers of your other hand in between the gaps of his,  ran them back and forth on the back of his palm.

 

"Had my five a day," you said, grinning in spite of yourself (what was there to be sad about? you wondered. Life, I guess, rebuked your conscience a second later. The fact that this won't last forever is one.) "So bring on the junk."

 

He leaned in, your hands still joined, lips on the nape of your neck and breaths on the edge of your skin.

 

Your eyes slid shut on their own, heartbeats steady and volatile. You loosen your grip on the apple, heard it drop on the floor.

 

He's ridiculous, he is.

 

"Hey," you whispered, empty hand pressing on his chest, "I was almost done with that."

 

His nose was nuzzling yours. So much for PDA.

 

"Sorry," he replied, soft and low, voice throbbing across your nerves, "Pay you back in pizza, promise."

 

And he did. A loaded, meaty cheese plate of a thin-crusted, oven baked pizza from the American pizza place around the corner.

 

Long red leather booths lined the checkerboard floor, while Ella Fitzgerald played. Neon signs hanging on the windows. Cashiers asking if you'd fancy milkshakes and fries with the pizza. It's that sort of place.

 

"Good?" he asked, the slice on his plate untouched. He's looking at you from across the booth, arms on either side of the table.

 

You finished chewing the bit in your mouth, nodded. "Yeah, quite."

 

You glanced around, picked up another slice off the main plate. "How'd you find this place, anyway, Gibs?"

 

He grinned, raised his eyebrow at the decor. "About time they opened here," he bent down, picked a mushroom off the cheese on his slice. "I was somewhere else for a while, you know."

 

"America?" you asked, followed suit and stole a mushroom off his slice.

 

He tilted his head.

 

"Psychic."

 

You licked your lips, oregano on the tip of your tongue.  "Wild guess."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I was the one playing Changing of the Seasons on loop after it happened. Guilty.
> 
> To be continued.


	3. folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: a shacket is a combination of shirt + jacket.
> 
> this chapter took a while to write, because I was racking my head for ways to approach them vignettes that are too close to my heart but simply had to be published - had to. i've let them go now, in a way, released them into the wild. it's my way of making peace, along the same veins as Taylor Swift's and lorde's. 
> 
>  what can we do. we're merely writers with convoluted thoughts, stupidly oversensitive hearts, and vivid memories.

 

  

* * *

 

  

 

 

 

_From this new and intimate perspective, she learned a simple, obvious thing she had always known and everyone knew:_

_that a person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn, not easily mended._

 

_\--Ian McEwan,_ Atonement

 

 

* * *

 

It started with all the stops.

 

You're watching the clip on your phone, transient bliss immortalized in a 1:08 minute interval. Tommy held up his phone, you'd leaned your head on his, thought a photo's being taken (would've been so much better that way, really). A few seconds and you're staring into the camera, confused. He chuckled, moving the phone side-to-side, on purpose (asshole). You shook your head, motioned him to steer the camera away from you.

 

"Why aren't you taking pictures?"

 

He stopped the clip, to the sounds of both your laughter.

 

You pressed your lips together, tight. Hit the trash icon, and all was gone.

 

The sunshine raining on you both. The green grass you lay on. The English breezes seeping through your blazer and his coat.

 

The clueless eyes you stared into the camera with.

 

You two stopped calling. Stopped texting. Stopped liking. Conversations halted, communication's a blank.

 

You mulled over the concept of closure, some, but searching for a reconnection with a lost contact was futile business.

 

"A little shit," said Collins, picking out tomato slices from his subway sandwich (the fuck), "That's what he is."

 

You took a long drag from the Sprite Zero in your grasp.

 

"I could read it on your face the minute you walked into this place." He's busy peppering the sandwich with spices, eyes glancing on and off between your face and the mish-mash of grilled chicken and lettuce in front of him.

 

"Thought it'd be a few more months, and then," he grabbed the sandwich, took a bite, "He did you in sooner."

 

You let out a half-hearted sigh.

 

"Baby got bored," Collins continued, voice nonchalant and cheek munching on the sandwich, "What'd you want with that?"

 

You're drumming your fingers on the table. He'd reached out, palm over yours, and paused the rhythmic recreation of the Clash's _London Calling_.

 

"Attachments, pfft," the management engineer-to-be tutted, taking a large sip of the cola on his left. "You'd be fine if you could treat it as fun and games. Like he does. Little rendezvous here and there. Snogging. Shags to clear the mind before an exam. Kisses on the side and matching coffee cups once upon a blue moon."

 

He tore off a chunk of the whole wheat.

 

"But you can't, can you? Your sodding romantic ideals and Percy Shelley and bloody soppy Keats."

 

You glared at him, picked a piece of chip from the bag in the middle of his tray.

 

He raised his hands. "Shoot me if you want," the best friend's smiling at you, armed with his years of ammunition, "I'm only guilty so far as my lies."

 

"And, to my best knowledge," he stated, solemnity a perfect mask for lightheartedness, "I've not told a single one."

 

 

* * *

 

  

“This your idea of fun?” Gibson’s asking, bemused and surprised. You threw a grey sweatshirt at him, hit him square in the chest.

 

He laughed, loud, caught the shirt and bundled it up, threw it in the basket. You’re shaking your head, muttering his name under your breath.

 

“Just gotta do what I gotta do, you know,” you said, loading the bundle of clothes into the washer. He helped you pick out the rest, separating the coloured from the monochrome. Your apartment’s laundry room was pretty much deserted.

 

Because of course, this was your idea of a Friday night.

 

He slammed the washers’ doors shut, both at once. You jumped on the bench in front of that long row of washers, and he followed. Next to you.

 

“So you’re saying,” he started, finger playing with a strand of your hair, “That no matter what. Even if your life changes. Even if you’re famous. Say, if you _do_ become famous—“

 

You snorted, brushed his hand away, crossing one leg over another while your eyes leapt up to the ceiling.

 

“—this is what you’d do?”

 

You sucked in a breath, watching clothes turn a full circle in the washer.

 

“Fame doesn’t magically transform life. Same way you have to take the bus, to walk to parks. Hikes. Laundry’s just another mundane task I’d rather stick to. Sure, you can avoid it. You can say you don’t want to,” you turned, kissed his cheek, “But I’m not letting anyone take this away from me.”

 

Gibson stared at you, wide-eyed. He reached for your hand, folded it in his, radiating warmth tangling your nerves.

 

“Weirdo,” he said, fond, drones of the machines drowning out his humming (a Bowie song—you’d predicted it by this point).

 

You tightened your grip on his hand.

 

_Let it run._

_Just let it run._

 

 

* * *

  

 

Eventually it turned into something you didn't talk about anymore.

 

Alex sat down opposite you, a pint of Guinness in his hand.

 

You started scraping away traces of chips on the table. The Smiths  was blaring from the restaurant's stereos, the lights dimmed low. A waiter placed plates of ribeye for the couple two tables away. Your plate was clean of the battered haddock delivered twenty minutes earlier, save for a smattering of chips at its upper left corner.

 

"I've seen that shacket before," he said, tipping his glass in your direction. Wiggled his eyebrow, free of charge.

 

You stared at him, chewed your cheeks.

 

Finger ran along the army green shacket's collar. Seconds. Just once, but only seconds.

 

"What, this?" you muttered, picked up a chip and twirled it in tiny ketchup bowl accompanying the plate.

 

Threw it into your mouth.

 

He grinned. Full toothed, ready, and you could about read the surmised play-by-play unfolding in his eyes.

 

"That, Gibs," he replied, "That particular outerwear you've got on, which is--and I say this with unabashed, excessive confidence from my position as his flatmate--downright to every single detail identical to Tommy's, with the blatant exception of its colour."

 

Blush shaded your cheeks, hard and fast. You shifted your sight to the drink's foamy top.

 

"Ayy," Alex called, waved a hand at your shacket, "Don't go quiet on me, big brother."

 

Strange, but you could almost hear the warmth bubbling beneath his teasing.

 

"Tomster still wears it, if you must know," he took a swig of the beer. "I say it's a great shacket, discounting, you know, _the thing_ \--(he swept the space above the table with his hand)--between you two."

 

And the way he pronounced 'the thing' echoed in your head.

 

"Goes with most of my outfits," you said, voice soft in your confession. You watched him take another sip, and thirsted for a drink.

 

(A mojito would be best, but a simple screwdriver would do just as much.)

 

A thought which hadn't pass your mind until he dropped in on your lone Saturday date.

 

"He's fine, thanks for asking," continued the artist in mock nonchalance, sensing your silence, "You know Tommy--"

 

You chuckled, squeezed your eyes shut for a handful of seconds. "And _I'm_ fine," you finished his sentence. Heavy browns stared back at yours, focused and searching.

 

"Really," you added, "Wouldn't be wearing the damn thing if I'm not."

 

_He's standing in front of the mirrors, arms loose at his side and the stupidest smile on his lips._

_"I like it," said Tommy, "I like it, and I'm going to buy it, whether you're buying it or not."_

_You stood, considered your reflection, hand palming the camel coloured shacket in your grasp. The army green draped over your form complemented the grey tee you were wearing, as the camel highlighted his navy blue one._

_"You think the green is better?" you asked, eying the rack of shackets opposite you two, on the mirrors' left. The shackets weren't on sale. The store was about to close in the next half hour, and you'd wandered downstairs to the mens section with him, looking for nothing when the camel shacket caught your eye._

_He stepped close, tapped you on the shoulder. "Goes with your outfit," he said, "I'd buy it if you own plenty of these types of tees."_

_Your wardrobe was (and is) practically monochrome._

_You tilted your head. The certainty in your reflection's eyes was startling._

_"Fine," you said, the decision made and approved and sealed before you'd even uttered the word._

_"I'll get it."_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (to be continued).
> 
> a couple of things:
> 
> 1\. I've deleted the clip, but it exists. On a hard drive, and not on a phone. As it should.
> 
> 2\. The Baby Driver laundromat scene is the cutest, okay?
> 
> 3\. My shacket is army green. I do still wear it. You were wearing a navy tee. I'm an idiot. Was. and I know it.
> 
> 4\. If you're reading this, or if you aren't, I don't really give a fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for stopping by, reading, and reviewing!
> 
> Your comments mean the world.
> 
> Your ever humble fanfic writer,
> 
> x
> 
> PS. Alex will show up soon. I promise :) <3


End file.
